August 9th, 2005

Olde

Goodnight and go

You and I, poised on the edge of a
failing precipice, masked as
my moral epiphany. This:
it comes much more easily/
naturally than I would have liked
or anticipated.

You and I, cocooned in a plush wrap
of black sky, stars,
and your strange fur. I run my hands through,
trying to understand why this is like
the last time, the first time,
the next time we will do it differently,
in a manner more befitting
of our business days. You will know:
"This is the way of the world."

You, you have twined your spindly limbs,
double-slipknotted around my own,
pulling me in and away so that
you are the only failsafe at this point in time.
Deliberation was two hours ago,
two vodkas ago, when I was still
susceptible. Now,
I am coaching and pushing you,
pulling in the tether until you realize
this is what I want, what I will have.

I, I have used you as a weapon.
Your strange fur, seeking lips.
You do this because this is what you have seen,
what you believe, have been taught
is the acceptable response to six a.m.
when we are rolling over the edge onto
a strange new territory of vice
and redemption.
I refuse, you, disallow you the comfort
of being so daytime t.v. I retract,
extricate the most delicate parts of my face,
pushing my seeking lips to your forehead.
There, I will feel your pulse,
your fright, your understated misunderstanding.

One day I will explain it to you. I will
make you understand about my penchant for
emotional duels at dawn and the time and place
for competitive introspection. I will tell you all about
the maps, longitude and latitude that have
inscribed themselves upon my body as a guide,
a book for prying eyes, wandering fingers.
Right now you are reeling, extending to me your need
for a teacher, an instructor about carnal verbosity.
The way that two people, you and I, can speak
by the shifting of a set of bones, the creak
of sinew against steel.

I have eclipsed myself, become this new thing,
taking on the scent of your strange fur. The morning has
extended her hand, palm-up, asking me where
I have been. I have taken
all of my conceptions about this sort of thing-
the correlation between sex and disattachment and
their direct influence upon my pre-dusk disposition-
from magazines, movies-- the secondhand storytelling of broken
and misunderstood people. I fully expect when you wake up
that you will have grown uninterested in my lessons,
my lips. These in-between things.

In the tiniest of movements, pieced together into a ballet,
I writhe free of you and your momentous implications. Left,
alone, on a pallet in the middle of the floor, of the desert,
of this oasis-- I twist myself between shafts of light,
and it makes me wonder if in your sleep you can feel
my shadow gliding across your bones,
the places where I was resting last night.
You shift, turn, sigh, but I have said goodnight
five times to your sleeping form, and I have gone-
leaving you to your own conclusions, your own revelations,
and your own moral epiphanies.

Tomorrow night I will sequester myself,
slip myself inside of the nuances of a night
where I was not a quivering, sacrificial form of myself but
a body, a being, stretched out and up until I
was objectification herself, screaming out that
women are no longer the victims of short nights
and long mornings. I will,
no longer,
piece my dilemmas, my idea of self,
from the spaces in the languid sentences
spun from other tongues. I
have been the one, pulling free,
running wild, screaming 'Goodnight!
Goodnight!' and just going on, and on.